220 On the trail of vanishing birds 



The Little Buffalo is the most beautiful river in the whole 

 world except, perhaps, its affluent, the Nyarling. This statement 

 sounds like the exaggeration of mere impulsive utterance. Per- 

 haps it is; but I am writing now after thinking the matter over 

 for two and a half years, during which time I have seen a thou- 

 sand others, including the upper Thames, the Afton, the Seine, 

 the Arno, the Tiber, the Iser, the Spree, and the Rhine. 



But he also said that his trip down the Little Buffalo would have 

 been one "of memorable joys but for the awful, awful, awful see 

 Chapter IX." The title of this chapter is simply "Mosquitoes," 

 and Seton complained that they are a terror to man and beast, 

 making of the North a hell on earth for six months of the year 

 when it might be a human paradise. As the season advanced we 

 found out what he was talking about! 



I had caught a bad cold and on the second evening at the river 

 mouth I was explaining my unhappy condition to a family of In- 

 dians that stopped by in their canoe. The squaw, a youngish 

 woman wearing long blue jeans and a rather sporty-looking blazer, 

 spoke briefly in Chipewyan now and then, addressing her husband 

 or one of the four children, and all my conversation was with the 

 head of the family. Then, as he asked me if I was taking anything 

 for my cold, the squaw, with something of a flourish, finished 

 lighting a cigarette and, holding it in a most sophisticated manner, 

 said, with no trace of an accent, "Have you tried Vicks?" Ah, 

 wilderness! 



Late Sunday afternoon Pat Carey and his float plane, en route 

 from Hay River, landed on the broad stretch of water off our 

 camp. Fort Smith had radioed him of our predicament and he 

 would carry us and our gear, except for the canoe, back to Smith 

 in two loads. Since I had "the Cold" at that time (all of us had 

 it in regular order), I was taken on the first load and the Stewarts 

 came along next day. On the way in, Pat told me that he had 

 seen a helicopter at Hay River that was working for some oil 

 geologists there. Maybe we could arrange to have the use of it for 

 a day. Thus began a week of radio messages between Fort Smith, 

 Hay River, Calgary, and Vancouver, while we cooled our heels 



